Sanctuary
by ABC Girl
Summary: After Calleigh is shot and the world closes in on Horatio, he seeks sanctuary.


Title: Sanctuary (1/1)  
  
Author: Andrea (abc3969@juno.com)  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Pairing: While I might explore the potential of other duos on occasion, my heart will always return to Horatio/Calleigh; and so, to my own muse I must be true.  
  
Disclaimer: Me no profit; you no sue.  
  
Archive: Is anybody archiving these? If so, just say so. I'll come visit. Eve, Laeta, be my guests.  
  
Spoilers: "Officer Down" and Horatio's back-story.  
  
Author's Notes: Special thanks to Marianne for the irreplaceable title and for allowing me to borrow the concept of Horatio's prayers for a fic. Ever since she published "Safe and Sound," I haven't been able to get the picture of Horatio in prayer out of my head. This is the result. Please note that this fic is *totally* unlike any of my others. It was written in the "grand tradition of Season Two"—it's an H/C story, but Calleigh appears only briefly, but with definite impact. Please don't let that deter you from reading! If TPTB can (or in some cases, won't) do it, so can I!  
  
Summary: After Calleigh is shot and the world closes in on Horatio, he seeks sanctuary.  
  
Feedback: If you please. Be gentle.  
  
*****  
  
Today, no, not just today, this entire week had been akin to hell on earth, a mad scramble from crime scene to crime scene, from interrogation to the lab and back again. Then, as though things could get any worse, the unthinkable happened--Calleigh had been shot. No one knew yet how severe her injuries were, but even if they weren't truly serious, the hole he'd seen ripped through her shoulder was no match for the one in Horatio's heart.  
  
Mere inches had made the difference between life and death--*her* life and death.  
  
Much about the past few hours had already become a blur to him, the adrenaline rush that had been spurring him on followed by the stuff of nightmare that was slowly morphing into the heavy-hearted waiting game he currently played. He only vaguely recalled someone saying that she was in surgery, probably would be there for hours, and then even longer in recovery.  
  
Now, tired and heartsick, he wrestled with guilt, fear, sorrow and bone- deep anger, anger just as intense as he'd felt when his mother was murdered and when he found out some of the many truths about his brother.  
  
The barren wasteland of his psyche stretched out around him, its desolation complete, its icy coldness all-encompassing.  
  
He'd never felt so alone.  
  
Faced with more questions than answers, and more rage than forbearance, he decided to seek refuge in the one place he had shied from over the years, the only place left to turn--the church.  
  
Many years, many disasters had passed since he last darkened these doors. As an adult, he had all too often neglected the spiritual in favor of the professional. He had visited dozens more crime scenes than services and could recount chapter and verse of legal code far more easily than he could the Bible.  
  
He hesitated for a moment, ambivalence forcing an involuntary shiver to make a lightning-fast journey over the length of his body.  
  
How ironic. He had made his way to St. Jude's. The patron saint of lost causes.  
  
He climbed the steps to the front door of the cathedral, echoes of hymns past surrounding him and following him inside. Warily he removed his sunglasses and stepped through the doors, his eyes inadvertently cast downward. He took a deep, meditative breath and made his way slowly along the center aisle, wincing when his every step created a reverberating 'click' on the marble floor, drawing undue attention to him in the otherwise reverent stillness.  
  
With more a shifting of his weight than an actual turn of his body, he slid into a pew toward the back of the chapel and sat down. Only then did he venture a look around.  
  
Soft, buttery golden rays of sunlight permeated the windows, vibrantly bringing their pictorials to life, the Great Allegories rendered on stained glass. Dozens of lit candles lined the altar, their glimmering flames creating tiny dancing shadows before him.  
  
A few of the faithful were scattered among the other rows of seats, each ensconced in their own ponderings. He briefly wondered what had brought them all here--what issues, what sins, what tragedies or needs, but he hastily pushed those thoughts away, lest his own concerns make him a spectacle, leaving him vulnerable to their reciprocated stares and presumptions.  
  
He closed his eyes, tried to rid himself of the many thoughts that swirled and eddied through his mind demanding attention. Flexing and relaxing each muscle group in turn, he began to embrace the quiet.  
  
In no time at all, he was thinking back to the scores of masses he'd attended as a very young child, sitting beside his mother like a proper little gentleman in his starchy, itchy sailor's suite, and then later, in dress suit, tugging fitfully at his tie. To this day, he wore a necktie only in the direst of circumstances. He couldn't even begin to count the number of "Hail Marys" and "Our Fathers" he'd recited over the years.  
  
Prayer, actually talking one-on-one to God, had always been this mysterious experience he never really understood. Until tragedy touched his life for the first time--  
  
Horatio had been ten years old when his dog, Rascal, died. He learned about true heartache then. His prayers were innocent and naive, but sincere. He missed Rascal so much. He poured his heart out begging God to bring his dog back. Rascal was his best friend and he didn't know what he was going to do without him.  
  
Love and loss...they're always intertwined. It's one of life's infinite conundrums; knowledge gained the hard way—through experience.  
  
He couldn't lose Calleigh—not now, not ever. Life without her was a circumstance not even worth contemplating.  
  
When his father left them, Horatio had prayed for strength. At too young an age, he had taken on the responsibilities of a man. If his father weren't man enough to be there for his mother, his brother and him, then Horatio would be a man for all of them.  
  
Unfortunately, Raymond resented Horatio's playing "dad" to him until the day he died.  
  
It was a hard habit to break, regardless.  
  
With his brother gone, he played the role of father to Ray, Junior on occasion. But even more often he acted as a father figure to his team. It was more than that, though. He was their mentor, their cheerleader and their friend. And with Calleigh, he hoped that someday soon, he could be even more.  
  
After his mother died, Horatio's prayers were angry and hurt—those were the only emotions he was capable of back then. He railed at God for allowing something so horrible to happen to her, to him, to his family. How could a loving God be so cruel? What good did it do Him to take his mother away?  
  
It took him many years, but Horatio finally realized the answer. God didn't take her. He received her when someone else did the taking. He allowed her to go in order to teach her sons how to become the men they were meant to be. Tough lesson, tough teacher. Undeniable results.  
  
When his marriage was falling apart, Horatio's prayers were frequent and harried. Only after he signed the divorce papers did he accept that he had been praying for the wrong thing. He'd been asking, pleading with God to make his wife see the real him and to see what *she* was doing to them by giving up on him and on their relationship.  
  
Little did he know that her leaving him would be a good thing.  
  
After that, he was free to be himself. Free to live and feel and do, without her comment or reprisal.  
  
Then came Calleigh.  
  
Since the day he met her, he'd been living in a state of grace, grace borrowed from Fate and, he feared, easily rescinded.  
  
In the blink of an eye, his world had taken on a new form—that of a deceptively formidable little wisp of a woman who stole his heart without ever really trying.  
  
He'd almost lost her today; almost lost his chance to be with her—he still could, for all he knew. If that happened, Horatio most likely would hang up his gun and turn in his badge. Going to the lab every day and not finding her there would be too much.--  
  
A muffled cough from across the room brought Horatio out of his reverie.  
  
He felt like an interloper coming here like this; yet strangely, he almost felt at home, the only difference being, now, he wasn't sure where to begin.  
  
'Hello, God, it's me, Horatio.' No. Too *Judy Blume*, he thought. 'Hiya, Big Guy.' Uh-uh. Too much like Speed.  
  
Horatio grinned despite himself.  
  
With a discomfited sigh, his shoulders slumped visibly and he hung his head. The words just wouldn't come. Like secrets collecting dust, they remained steadfastly hidden.  
  
*****  
  
Father Angelo stood off to the side surveying the scene. Movement in the distance drew his attention to a certain pew where a lone sunbeam's trail ended atop a man's head, hair the exact shade of sun-bleached brick.  
  
The priest smiled kindly and made his way forward, ready to help a lost sheep return to the fold.  
  
The vicar grasped him lightly by the shoulder and greeted softly, "Horatio," compassion where his voice should have been.  
  
Horatio lifted his head and stood to his feet in one motion intending to greet the older man properly, but the formalities had to wait, as he was momentarily taken aback. Horatio was not such a familiar face within these hallowed walls, so it was no small feat that the aging, silver-haired priest recognized him.  
  
Father Angelo chuckled at the shocked expression on the younger man's face.  
  
"It's not so amazing, son. The shepherd always knows his flock."  
  
The cleric's eyes shown with an intuitiveness that might have intimidated lesser men, but his warm, ready smile more than made up for that.  
  
"Hello, Father. It's been a while, hasn't it?" Horatio asked, a shy smile forming on his lips.  
  
"Too long. Much too long," the priest chided amicably.  
  
Horatio's discomfort became evident when he cleared his throat, bent his head low and began fingering his sunglasses absently.  
  
Father Angelo gestured toward the pew and suggested they sit. He wasted little time on idle chitchat.  
  
"What brings you here after so long being away?"  
  
Horatio tucked his sunglasses into the inside pocket of his suit coat and looked at the man again, his unmasked eyes stricken with uncertainty and torment.  
  
Horatio whispered, fighting not to choke on the words, "Father, I..."  
  
"Take your time, son. Make your struggle one *toward* God and not  
away from Him."  
  
Heartened by the man's patience, Horatio gave a half-smile and  
continued.  
  
"My Grandma Helen was always much more devout than my mother or anyone else in my family. Of all the words of wisdom she passed on to me over the years, the advice I think I liked the best was, "a prayer is the desire of your heart voiced to the Almighty, so since He's there to listen, mean every word you say."  
  
Father Angelo smiled indulgently. "A wise woman, your grandmother."  
  
"Since she told me that, I've made it a point to pray with purpose. Every word counts or I don't say it. The thing is, you see, I've been told I talk to people that way, too. I've never been good at trivial conversation."  
  
The priest nodded in understanding, but asked compellingly, "And this is a problem because..."  
  
"Because...at the moment, I have no one to talk to and it's been so long since I actually prayed, I'm not even sure God would hear me."  
  
Horatio leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  
  
"He always listens and He always hears," Father Angelo counseled. "Even when it's our hearts speaking, and not our mouths. Bury your face in the mane of the Lion of Judah, Horatio; he will help you through this crisis of faith," he entreated.  
  
Neither man spoke for a time, allowing the silence to soothe and nurture.  
  
"Don't try to follow a script, Horatio. When your spirit is crushed, predetermined words mean nothing. Open your mind and let your heart do the talking."  
  
Horatio let the suggestion sink in.  
  
"What has happened to bring you such pain?" the priest pressed on.  
  
"Someone took a bullet meant for me."  
  
Father Angelo easily picked up on the unspoken implication. "This person is special to you--a woman, perhaps?"  
  
The story spilled from Horatio's lips before he could stop it.  
  
"She did nothing wrong, Father. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A man with a vendetta against me took it out on her."  
  
The priest listened intently, nodding and empathizing with each new detail Horatio revealed. He sensed the depth of feeling Horatio felt for this woman. Even presented only with limited facts, he could see plainly that this tortured soul was in love, and, what's more, that he probably didn't even realize it about himself yet.  
  
"Why are the people I care about always paying a price meant for me?" Horatio questioned.  
  
"I imagine our Lord asked much the same question many times," Father Angelo replied sagely. "One of the most difficult things for us to accept as humans is that we don't have all of the answers."  
  
Horatio nodded in agreement. Answers were what he didn't have right now—answers to why Calleigh had been shot, how people could be such monsters, why there are so many victims and why they just keep coming and why he can't help them all or stop all the perpetrators.  
  
"He identifies with our humanness, our struggles and our weaknesses, our lostness and loneliness. He understands better than anyone how you're feeling."  
  
Horatio sat and absorbed everything. Father Angelo stayed close, but didn't intrude. After a bit, Horatio began to speak again.  
  
"Father, in my work, I see tragedy and death almost every day. I can usually distance myself from it all, but..."  
  
The priest was beginning to get a clearer picture.  
  
"You use your science as a buffer. And when your special lady was hurt, your buffer didn't work. You couldn't hide from 'man's inhumanity to man' this time."  
  
The younger man's face lit with the glow of epiphany. That was it *exactly*.  
  
"I've been angry before, Father, but never like this." Horatio's expression changed, registering the hatred and rage he felt toward Calleigh's shooter.  
  
The wise man advised him further.  
  
"Then allow yourself to look beyond the anger, Horatio."  
  
Horatio searched the other man's eyes imploringly. "I had it within my power to take that man's life. It would have been so easy, Father." Horatio was disconsolate.  
  
"And yet you didn't," the priest countered. "Instead, you looked deep inside yourself and realized that would have solved nothing."  
  
Horatio avoided the older man's eyes, looking around the church, his attention never focusing on any one specific thing.  
  
"Horatio, I think I know you well enough to say that you aren't the kind of man who could kill for killing's sake. You believe there is more good in the world than evil. Take solace from that, son."  
  
Skeptical eyebrows lifted.  
  
"You are not an accuser by nature. You are a forgiver; but your work exposes you to many things that seem unforgivable."  
  
The assurance in the holy man's words gave Horatio comfort.  
  
"Nothing is more loving or difficult than forgiveness. You must forgive the one who hurt her." He paused before he added a codicil to his advice. "If you fail to forgive him, your hurt will never go away—it will fester and erupt when you least expect it. In your line of work, I should think you couldn't afford for that to happen while you are dealing with another suspect."  
  
"Absolutely not." Horatio agreed.  
  
The priest had not yet reached the greater issue. Horatio still had wounds, open and raw, that needed to be healed.  
  
"There is a big difference between carrying a cross and being crucified on one," Father Angelo pointed out. "You are not to blame for your friend, this one who means so much to you, being shot."  
  
Horatio's heart lurched in his chest. He knew the man was right, but still...  
  
The priest went further. "You can't solve all the world's problems, Horatio, and you can't prevent every tragedy."  
  
"I should have prevented this one," Horatio lamented, his voice thick with unshed tears.  
  
Horatio's greatest struggle was not against the criminal element this time—it was against his own feelings of guilt. He couldn't help but think that he'd been responsible for Calleigh's injuries. He'd failed her. He'd failed, period. And she had paid the price. He would never forgive himself; he would carry the burden of her plight on his back like a millstone. How could she possibly forgive him?  
  
As if reading his parishioner's mind, the priest spoke up. "I doubt she blames you for what's happened, Horatio. Unburden yourself here for a bit. Surrender the guilt and the anger. I believe once that is done, you'll know what to do next. I'll leave you to it."  
  
The two men rose from their seats and shook hands. Father Angelo stepped into the aisle, preparing to leave.  
  
"Thank you, Father. I appreciate your help," Horatio admitted, a look of uneasy peace in his eyes.  
  
Horatio watched the other man walk away and close the heavy chapel doors behind him.  
  
In the short span of their conversation, the sanctuary had emptied, leaving Horatio alone to contemplate.  
  
Father Angelo's words resonating in his ears, Horatio took a few determined steps, his path leading him to the front of the church, directly beneath the foot of the Cross. Once again he closed his eyes, crossed himself appropriately, and bowed his head with a soft sigh.  
~~~~~ His time in prayer had been nothing short of miraculous for Horatio. He had followed Father Angelo's urging and let go of everything—the pain, the desperation—all of it. By the time he'd left the church, all his fears had melted into a contented peace and his anger had faded like so much ephemeral mist disappearing behind him, gently replaced by life-affirming resignation. Justice would be served on the shooter and he was free to admit his feelings to Calleigh and see where they would lead.  
  
He needed to go to Calleigh, to be with her to reassure himself that she was, indeed, recovering, and moreover, that he hadn't squandered his chance to open up and let her in.  
~~~~~ Equal parts casework and conflicting emotions had kept Horatio from visiting Calleigh in the hospital. Her injuries had mercifully turned out to be more of an annoyance than a catastrophe. Through the office grapevine he had heard that she was being released from the hospital today, so there he stood outside her room, ready to offer to drive her home.  
  
Curiously, the door to her room was closed, while all the other doors on the floor stood open. A momentary sense of foreboding washed over him, but propelled him forward into the room, nonetheless.  
  
Calleigh was nowhere to be found. An overnight bag lay open on the bed along with a stack of papers Horatio presumed to be the ticket for her release.  
  
He called her name several times, to no avail. She was gone. 'Oh, God, what if something went wrong?' Horatio's mind began working in overdrive. What if she'd suddenly taken a turn for the worse? He had to find her. He had to know what was happening.  
  
He pivoted on his heel and rushed toward the staff station, concern and worry apparent not only on his face, but in his voice.  
  
"Calleigh Duquesne. Where is she?"  
  
Horatio's brusque tone caught the attention of a duo of nurses who both looked up from their respective tasks and leveled suspicious glares at him.  
  
Realizing his abruptness, a contrite Horatio went about smoothing their ruffled feathers, an effort for which he was rewarded with the answer he sought. The doctor had signed Calleigh's release forms and Calleigh had decided to visit the hospital chapel while she waited for a cab to arrive.  
  
'It's now or never, H,' he thought to himself.  
~~~~~ The door silently swung open, revealing the austere chapel in all its simplistic beauty.  
  
There at the end of the front pew sat Calleigh, her head bowed, her long blonde hair obscuring her face from his view.  
  
He hung back and watched, entranced at the sight before him--Calleigh, alive and recuperating, unguarded and motionless--maybe the loveliest vision he'd ever seen.  
  
She appeared to be deep in thought, so much so that Horatio hated to disturb her.  
  
"...and please help Horatio to believe in himself again, to believe in *me*... in *us*," Calleigh whispered, just loudly enough for him to hear.  
  
Horatio reflexively caught his breath, tried to stifle the sound, but it was too late.  
  
Startled, Calleigh looked over her shoulder, and recognizing the source of the sound, swiveled to face him.  
  
The next few moments passed in relative slow motion, yet were over in an instant.  
  
Calleigh's shining eyes met Horatio's enthralled ones, creating a bond between them no words could have equaled. Her sweet, guileless smile warmed him from the inside out.  
  
She sighed contentedly, beaming at him. "You came."  
  
She stood and inched her way toward him gingerly.  
  
Horatio smiled earnestly, his heart full to overflowing. He took a few steps, meeting her halfway. Calleigh moved into the space of his outstretched arms and carefully tucked herself into his embrace, both of them mindful of her injuries.  
  
"My prayers were answered," she murmured.  
  
"Mine, too," he whispered, closing his eyes briefly to savor the moment.  
  
He breathed in the fresh vanilla scent of her hair and surrendered to the urge to smooth his hands over the silky strands.  
  
As he felt her arms tighten around him, he opened his eyes and looked toward the front of the tiny room to the tall wooden cross on the wall.  
  
"Thank you," he mouthed silently, returning Calleigh's hug.  
  
At this, one of the lowest points in his life, Horatio had found it within himself to seek help and comfort from a higher power, and in doing so, found sanctuary, not just inside the walls of a church, but in Calleigh's arms.  
  
~finis~ 


End file.
